St John’s Smith Square
16th April 2008
A star was born, on this esteemed day, when Roger Padulles, sang, in England, for the very first time. The captivating tenor, strode, heroically, through the crowds, to take his place, on that great stage, of the St John’s, Smith Square, hall. Resplendent, in his scarlet shirt, he struck me to my very heart, before, he had even, opened his magnificent mouth.
The eponymous young gentleman, from Barcelona, introduced the masses, to many musical treasures, from his native land. He commenced, wondrously, with the Romanc de Saint Llucia, his voice of velvet stroking each note with exquisite tenderness, and then, showed his jaunty side, with the splendid Canco de Grumer, a song of farewell, but not of sadness.
He returned, to the majesties, of the Catalan language, with a selection of expressional, and melifluous, songs by Federico Mompou. The composer, was new to me, but Roger, captured, its perfections, with such, dashing, yet, also, so intimate, manliness, they had, within them, the warmth of familiarity. Both songs were effulgent, with tragedy, yet, overpoweringly, sensuous, I wanted, to expire, at his very feet.
The Spanish tongue, was honoured, by seven songs, from the pen of Manuel de Falla, in the sweetest exotic flavours, of Spain. Roger gave the deepest pain, to the tragedy, of a soiled cloth, rendering it, important, tragical, a true metaphor for innocence lost. Also, within, this epic cycle, Roger characterised, a tree in lament, the gentle soothing, of an infant, into slumbers. The songs, were written first, for a soprano, yet, Roger finds, in the depths of his heart, a deluge, of femininity, so heartfelt, so true. He ended, with the poignant, cries, of a wounded heart.
Roger sang, too, opera, thus intwined, with the songs, of his birthplace, firstly, in la langue d’amour, la belle France. In that illustrious opera, of Shakesperean, joys, and woes, Berlioz’ Béatrice et Bénédict, or, to those of literary persuasion, Much Ado About Nothing, Roger, as Bénédict, declared, sweepingly, his profound love, for Béatrice, and, certainly, she would be stone, if this passionate outpourings touched her not. Then came, an aria, from La belle Hélène, by Offenbach, an opera of such frivolity, I dislike it exceedingly, but, from Roger, it could only become a delight, so charmingly humourous, as he tells of his role, as a Beauty Queen judge to the goddesses, clearly a man, of the greatest courage, as all contestants were, probably, capable of raining thunder and lightning upon his very head.
The more conventional, operatic repertoire, was personified, firstly, in Tamino, the aria in which, he gazes, with adoration, on the portrait of Pamina, as love, surges, in his manly bosoms. He is not, perhaps, a tenor, of natural lightness, but he sang, from his very heart, and it is so long, since I have heard a Tamino, proclaim, so ravishingly, so stirringly, his most profound affections. In truth, it is not since last autumn, and this is most scandalising, considering the immense number, of Zauberfloten, I have attended.
Then came, The Rake’s Progress, a rare foray, into our own, English, tongue. This he sang, with the slightest of accents, but with such shining clarity, and why, should not Tom Rakewell, be a gentleman, of Barcelona? It is, undoubtedly, not a Barcelonian name, but, Edgardo and Enrico, are, emphatically, not the names of Scotsmen, yet, still, Donizetti personifies them so. Roger here, painted, in the most winning, of pastels, a man of the meekest gentleness, the most ardent kindness, yet, with all to great a capacity, to be overpowered, by the grip, of evil.
His finest moment, of which there were many, was the heartrending laments of Lensky, as he ponders, on the coming duel, with his former bosom friend, Onegin, and the cruel loss, to Onegin, of his dearest, loveliest, Olga. I quite forgot, as I sat, transfixed, enraptured, disconsolate, devastated, that Roger was not, in a production, that Onegin was not, in a matter of minutes, to enter, weapon in hand, and shoot, out of all existence, this enchanting, gifted, sentimental, young swain. What a comely and supreme talent, to be able to create, the spectacle, of a performance, no, not even a performance, it was like, watching a slice of life, unfolding, calamatously, interminably, before your very eyes.
Another, irrefutible, precedence of magnificence, was ‘De ‘miei bollenti spiriti’ from, my most particular favourite opera, from that which I am named, although I am in no way a fallen damsel myself, La traviata. Here, Alfredo, proclaims, with energy, his deepest love, for Violetta, and I could, veritably, believe, Roger was singing to me. He has such style, such elegance, yet, such intimacy, and I doubt not, even momentarily, that every woman, except, perhaps, those of the homosexual persuasion, felt, indescribably, bound, to the fiery passions, of Alfredo.
The conclusion, was a piece of music, that has taxed, and troubled, many, of the greatest of tenors. With its excess, of high Cs, nine in total, ‘Ah Mes amis… Pour mon ame”, has been the undoing, of many a tenor. But not Roger. He struck each with security, and enjoyment, of the jocularity, within the opera. His character, the amicable and fervourous Tonio, has won Marie. And Roger, has won his audience.
An encore was, naturally, desired, and Roger sang, a song, from an operetta popular in France, which was, to me, unfamiliar. The delighted laughter, from his captivated, audience, showed, the song was known to some, perhaps, from an advertisement, on the television, but what is the mute button, on the remote control for, if not, to quell, the undesirable intermissions? If only, there was a mute button, at the opera.
Violetta
primi-divi at hotmail.co.uk